


Christmas Bentley

by okapi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Advent Calendar, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Christmas, Christmas Presents, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mostly Fluff, No beta we fall like Crowley, Other, Picnics, Sex as a Man-Shaped Creature, Sex as a Snake, Sex in a Car, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21863608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: On the afternoon of Christmas Day, Crowley picks Aziraphale up for a winter picnic.Inspired by the paintingChristmas Bentleyby Peter Miller.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge, The 100 Multifandom Challenge





	Christmas Bentley

**Author's Note:**

> For the MissDavisWrites' Advent Calendar Day 20: Christmas presents and for the DW 100 Fandoms prompt 021. fiddle.

The afternoon of Christmas Day is always a bit a downer for an angel, the rush being well over.

Aziraphale sighed and licked his finger and advanced to a new page without having read the old one. The mug of cocoa beside him had been cold for some time. He fiddled with the spoon, absentmindedly.

Suddenly, a jolly toot-toot sounded from outside the bookshop. Aziraphale hurried to the door, hoping it was for him.

It was.

“Oh, Crowley!”

The Bentley gleamed like a halo, and not the fallen kind. The top was rolled back, and one door was festooned with a large red-and-gold ribbon. A cheeky red-bellied sparrow was perched on the silver hood ornament.

Most people would say that it was impossible to sashay out of a car, especially from the driver’s seat.

Most people are wrong.

Crowley managed it quite nicely. And in a new suit.

“Hello, angel,” he said with a smile.

“Your car!” exclaimed Aziraphale

“Cleans up nicely, no?”

“So does its owner. You look very dapper.”

“Yeah. I wanted to surprise you. I’ve missed you, you know?”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“It’s a busy time of year for both sides.”

“Now before I forget, let me wish you the compliments of the season…”

[Note: Crowley invented the phrase ‘the compliments of the season’ for the express purpose of warmly hailing Aziraphale on or about December 25 without using the dreaded ‘C’ word, and for that he was made the patron demon of the greeting card industry.]

“…and invite you on a winter picnic.”

Aziraphale’s eyes grew round at the sight of hamper in the backseat.

Crowley lifted one half of the lid.

“Jacket potatoes, Bolivian salteñas, violet cremes, mulled wine made with Malbec, not Syrah—”

“Oh, hush, you wily serpent! You had me at picnic!” cried Aziraphale. “Just give me a moment.” He ducked back into the shop.

“The sign already says ‘Closed,’ angel,” observed Crowley.

Aziraphale reappeared with a bundle wrapped in bright paper and tied with gold ribbon. He held it out to Crowley.

“Oh, I can’t accept…you know…seasonal gifts, angel.”

“But it isn’t a gift, Crowley.”

“No?”

“It’s a down payment for near future…services.”

Behind his dark glasses, Crowley’s eyes dilated, which meant they turned black when thin yellow slits down the centre instead of the reverse. He grinned a demonic grin [Note: all Crowley’s grins were demonic] and opened the door.

“Get in the car, angel.”

* * *

“Where are we going?” asked Aziraphale when they were well underway.

“Tadfield.”

“Sentiment?”

“Not really. Tadfield always has the perfect weather, still, regardless of the season. White Christmas with a picture-postcard-worthy shower of flurries expected later, just when we wanted them.”

“You’re right, Crowley. It couldn’t be more beautiful,” sighed Aziraphale as he surveyed the snowy meadow from their secluded spot at the edge of the woods. He accepted the mug of mulled wine and clinked Crowley’s mg.

“Now, prezzie!” cried Crowley, setting aside the mug. He tore off the paper and ribbon with diabolical haste.

“Oh, angel, you shouldn’t have.” With two hands, Crowley held up the long, wooly strip, black with the occasional thin yellow stripe.

“Probably not. But I made it myself.”

“Really?”

“Yes, knitting is just, you know, fiddling with needles.” Aziraphale pantomimed the motion. “Quite soothing when you get the hang of it.”

Crowley hung the gift about his neck then crossed the two ends and tossed them behind his back.

“Warm,” he said. “And soft.”

“It isn’t a scarf, Crowley.”

“Huh?” Crowley removed it from his neck and studied it. He realised it was actually a tube that was open at one end, the end which bore loops that resembled handles. “If it’s a willy warmer,” he said, judging the length, “I’m flattered.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “It’s a snake sock.” He took it by the handles and opened it. “You can hang these on hooks and tuck yourself inside when you want to sleep snugly and warmly as, you know, your favourite reptile.”

“Oh!” Crowley exclaimed, then he laughed. “That’s brilliant, angel. Thank you.” He gave Aziraphale a dainty peck on the cheek.

And so Aziraphale, after consuming half of a thermos flask of mulled wine and more than half of a gourmet feast, settled in the back of the Bentley with a snake in a blanket on his chest. The roof of the Bentley was up because of prettily falling snow which had arrived on cue when the last dregs of the mulled wine had been consumed.

“A long winter’s nap,” Aziraphale said with a yawn and closed his eyes.

* * *

Aziraphale woke with the sense of the passage of a lengthy duration of time. He also woke to great, but not nearly infernal, heat. It was dark, and nothing could be seen out of the windows. From where he was curled, he considered reaching toward the front to open a window or perhaps even crack a door. His hand found some knobs and handles and fiddled. He thought he had it when he heard an ominous click.

Oh, dear.

It was then Aziraphale realised that sometime during their nap, Crowley had shed his knitted skin and sought his favourite kipping spot, that is, beneath Aziraphale’s clothes, along the length of Aziraphale’s bare skin.

Crowley’s serpentine head was resting on Aziraphale’s chest and the rest of him ran southward, with the last quarter looped around Aziraphale’s soft prick.

The intimacy of it aroused Aziraphale as much as the physical touch. He savoured the sheer nearness of Crowley.

Of course, sleeping or awake, Crowley missed very little, and no sooner had Aziraphale closed his eyes than he felt the tickle of a forked tongue at his nipple and a delicious coiling and uncoiling ‘round his prick.

Aziraphale immediately unfastened his trousers and pushed them and his pants down, spreading his hobbled legs as wide as possible.

“Crowley.”

Crowley wriggled down Aziraphale’s body. His tongue now flickered in Aziraphale’s navel, and his head nuzzled, in so much as a snake’s head can nuzzle, at Aziraphale’s belly. A thicker portion of Crowley’s body was wrapped ‘round Azirphale’s prick while the tip of his tale slinked along Aziraphale’s perineum, helped by a wantonly angelic lift of hips, to Aziraphale’s hole, where it teased.

“Oh, would you? Please,” begged Aziraphale, though there was never any doubt that Crowley most certainly would, even without the ‘please.’

Now whether Crowley was a self-lubricating serpent or Aziraphale a self-lubricating man-shaped creature is a mystery for the ages, but very soon Aziraphale was gasping Crowley’s name and reaching the highest point of ethereal pleasure that can be reached by occult forces in the back of a Bentley.

Crowley transformed into his man-shaped form, wholly divested of new suit, and Aziraphale lost no time in reversing their positions so that Crowley was on his back.

Now Aziraphale relished everything he deigned to put in his mouth, and Crowley’s prick was no exception.

“Angel, angel, angel…”

Aziraphale bobbed and sucked and wriggled his tongue, treating Crowley like the tasty morel he was, and employing much of what he’d perfected while not gavotting at that discrete gentleman’s club in Portland Place.

When Crowley had gasped Aziraphale’s name for the last time, Aziraphale nosed Crowley’s inner thigh and said,

“Crowley, I’m afraid I’ve locked us in.”

“Whut?” grunted Crowley.

“The car. I tried to open a window, but it made a noise. Not a good noise.”

“It’s fine, angel. You just have to fiddle with it.”

There was another click.

Aziraphale gave a sigh of relief.

They remained like that, bodies clinging, limbs entangled, until finally Crowley said,

“I’ve got to stretch my legs.”

“I need a bit of air.”

It took a while to unfold and crawl out of the Bentley.

“Crowley, it’s almost dawn.”

“Yeah, long winter’s nap was long.”

“It’s so beautiful.”

Crowley stretched and looked at Aziraphale. “Sure is.”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath, then whispered, “Look!”

A magnificent stag cantered across the snowy meadow just as tendrils of pink and yellow uncurled from the horizon.

“The holly and the ivy…” sang Aziraphale.

Crowley scowled. “No carols!”

“But, Crowley,” protested Aziraphale. “It’s the rising of the sun and the running of the deer! How can I not?”

Crowley chuckled. “Back to London?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Home, James,” he said as he gently brushed snow from the polished steel, “and don’t spare the magnificent horses.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
